Caffeine Headaches
by PrettyPurpleInk
Summary: Turns out, when employers say they're looking for "motivated, hard-working, punctual induviduals", they mean it. So when Matt gets fired (again), he calls a friend for a favor. "Just show up for your shifts and try to keep up." That's all he has to do. His success rate so far is...spotty at best, but when he meets his new coworker, it's suddenly a little easier than before.
1. Chapter 1

"Look, Matt, just…try. I vouched for you–"

"–And I'm indebted to you, dude. I owe you one."

"You owe me several, asshole," Mihael hisses, shoving his dramatic-ass, faux-leather jacket into a tiny locker.

"I'm good for all of 'em, you know I am."

"Right. Whatever. Just show up for your shifts. Don't make me look bad, Matt, or I swear to god you'll regret it."

"Swear to God? Are you allowed to do that? Isn't that blasphemous?"

"Not if I mean it… Put your shit away, I'll find you a tag."

Five minutes later I'm standing behind the counter with a stupid, shiny "Trainee" tag pinned to my shirt.

Four and a half hours later, I've discovered that professional-grade coffee machines are ridiculously difficult to comprehend, we keep five kinds of milk in the mini fridge under the blenders ("do not ever substitute one for another without asking the customer"), the cleaning supply closet is the door opposite the staff room, and the coffee supply room (also home to the dishwasher) is the door to the right of the counter (left, if you're standing behind the counter), and yes, the four boxes of hazelnut syrup are necessary, Matt.

All I can smell is coffee, my hands are jittery from my need for nicotine, and I'm oddly sweaty for only having shuffled around a six-by-five space for the past couple hours.

Mihael heads out back with me to check my backpack before I leave — a couple years ago, they had a guy working there that got fired for stealing sugar packets and toilet paper, so checks are mandatory now — and to co-sign the sign out sheet, since I'm still on trial and don't have a punchcard yet.

The second day is mostly spent learning how the register works and marking plastic cups with a sharpie, with a little more Machine training and 'this is where stuff is' thrown in.

The third day is 99% about cleaning standards, and how to deal with the bathrooms — "Knock loudly on the women's room door, crack the door, shout that you're a dude walking in to clean up, and if no one shouts back, go for it. And prop the door open while you're in there." — and ends with Mihael calling, "Ten o'clock Monday morning, Matt. Be there," as I'm heading out the door.

When I walk in at 9:40 on Monday morning (because fuck you, Mihael, I can do punctual), there's a new face behind the counter — pale and kinda boyishly cute in the least creepy way possible, white-blond hair in naturally loose curls, and a picture perfect little smile on his face as he signs fluidly to the woman he's dealing with. He turns his head to relay the order over his shoulder, smile still in place, and spares me a glance as I'm stepping through the Staff Only door.

"Who the fuck is that?!"

Mihael turns around so fast I'm almost surprised he doesn't give himself whiplash or something. "What'd I tell you about sneaking up on me?!"

"Right, sorry. So, the new guy. Pale. Signs. Who is he? Where'd he come from?"

The blond looks confused for just a second before he's glaring at me. "Nate. He's been working here for months. Why?"

"I- he's- I'm fucked."

"Fan-fucking-tastic. Just what I need — a distracted, lazy, shit-brain manning my coffee machine."

"Fuck off, that shit's complicated–"

"No it's not, you're just dumb as dog shit."

"Hey! Take it easy, Boss Man, I've only been at it for three damn days!"

Mihael sighs, combing his fingers through his hair and gathering it up at the back of his head. "Yeah, okay, it takes a little getting used to. Look, just try to stay focused? Try to keep up, an' pull your weight?" His hair's in a half-bun thing, the kinda style dudes usually get laughed at for; but I don't think he has that problem. "Learning curve, I get it, but I can't promise to keep you around if you start slacking on me, man."

"Yeah, I know. I'm takin' this seriously, Mells, I promise."

He nods, golden hair bobbing a little with the motion. "Good. Don't forget to sign in, and slap a patch on if you've got one, it's gonna get busy and smoke breaks are one an hour after your first two hours."

As soon as I step out onto the shop floor, I'm regretting it. The line is damn near out the door, and there are more than a few pairs of crossed arms. "Matt!" A trillion pairs of eyes are suddenly staring at me and my heart's hammering away in my gut as I shuffle my feet toward the weird little section of the counter that lifts up, where Mihael standing. "You're bussing and table-running. Linda, register, and keep an eye on the 'extras' station. Nate, Machine's all yours, and I'm filling in the gaps. Anything gets low anywhere, tell me. Got it?"

Two "Got it!"s chorus from behind the counter and I stammer out my own.

Even thought it's 'late' in the morning and all the coffee-fuelled business people should have been and gone by now, most of the orders are to-go, so I end up having a little more breathing space than everyone else. I mean, they seem to be fine with it, but when I'm wiping down one table every fifteen minutes and they're nonstop, it feels a little shitty, so while Linda's pausing for breath, I rush up to the register and tell her I'll keep an eye on the 'extras'.

She smiles and thanks me, Mihael turns just enough to nod at me over his shoulder, and I'm just tryna help, really, it has nothing to do with the 'extras' station being close to The Machine.

I keep stealing glances at Nate while he works — I know I have my own work to do, but he's way more interesting. God, that sounds creepy — he moves seamlessly between the mini fridge and The Machine and the pickup counter, and there's something like a smile on his face the whole time.

When it finally calms down, Nate's smile loosens up, melts across his face; Linda winks at him over his shoulder and he laughs, but it's too soft for me to hear.

There's only one customer left and she stands waiting at the pickup counter, thumbing through her phone. She'll be gone in a minute and maybe then I'll get a chance to talk to Nate, so, stupid cleaning cloth and disinfectant bottle in hand, I head over.

The girl doesn't seem to notice me, but Nate does — he turns his head, just a fraction, smile still relaxed, and offers a quiet, "Hi."

"Hi. Uh, I'm- I'm Matt."

"I heard," he says, setting the cappuccino on a tray beside The Machine, and turns his attention to the girl it's apparently for. "Cocoa powder? Cinnamon?"

"No thanks. But it's definitely soy, right?"

He pops the lid onto the cup and sets it carefully in front of her. "Absolutely."

"Thanks." She plucks the cup off the counter and turns to go, but doesn't get as far as a step away before she's turning back around and asking, "Where's your sugar?"

"Right over there," I tell her, pointing over my shoulder with my thumb, "on that kiosk, counter thing."

"Great, thank you."

"No problem…" I flash a polite smile and as she finally walks away, I see Nate messing with the milk steamer. "So anyway, I-I just thought I should, uh, introduce myself since we, um, y'know, since we, uh, work together."

He opens his mouth to say something, but I never hear what it is because right at that moment, the girl comes back to tell me we're out of brown sugar, and since it's unofficially 'my thing', I have to go deal with it.

We end up so busy that I don't get another chance to talk to him until the end of the day, but it's just a "Bye," tossed his way as he's rushing out the door.

For the next couple days, Mihael has me working with Linda. He probably thinks he's being clever, but he's not, I know exactly what he's up to. Unluckily for him, Linda gets so caught up in trying to keep up with rushes, that for the most part she kinda forgets that she's supposed to be training me, and that maybe I should get in some practice making drinks. I mean, every once in a while, if it's quiet, she'll step aside, but I spend most of my time in 'watch and try to learn' mode…when I'm not trying to sneak glances at Nate.

Unfortunately for me, Mihael's plan does pretty well in keeping me from interacting with Nate (beyond repeating orders for clarification), but does nothing to actually distract me from him.

Mihael must've realised (probably after a few customer complaints) that Machine work isn't really for me, so even before the end of my first full week, I pretty much get demoted to a bus boy/janitor. It's boring as fuck, but no one's breathing down my neck, and I promised Mihael I'd try, so until I have a better reason not, I'm staying.

Oddly enough, after moving to this side of the counter, I end up talking to Nate a little more. Sure, it's never an actual conversation — he's only ever asking me to grab more skimmed milk or caramel sauce or some shit, but he smiles at me every time, and it's worth it.

Nate's not there again on Thursday, so I end up behind the register in fits and starts; and when I'm not back there, I'm thinking — is it Nate's usual day off? Is it weird that I noticed? Is it weirder that I kinda…care? Yeah. Yeah, that's definitely not cool. I don't even know the guy…the cute guy…the cute guy with the best smile…the cute guy with the best smile that just exudes calm…the cu– "Matt! C'mon, man!"

Friday and Saturday are my days off, and more than once I think about going down to the the shop to try to talk to Nate…but I spend most of my Friday too tired to move anything but my eyes and thumbs. Saturday is a bust, too; my apartment is kinda gross, I'm out of clean socks, and I decide that it's finally time to do something about my empty fridge.

Sunday is day from hell. It's not especially busy, and nothing really goes wrong, but nothing goes right either.

The lady from the other day, the one Nate signs with, is back and she either has a ridiculously complicated order, or she's telling one hell of a story… Then there are my smoke breaks… And when Nate takes his lunch break, I have to cover the register… There's this little girl that spends a good couple of minutes gushing over Nate's 'Elsa hair', and when he compliments her on her butterfly hair clip, it's game over; she rattles off a list of other hair clips she has, and Nate stands there, Oooing and Ahhing and smiling while her Dad's gently trying to shuffle her away… So, as usual, I have to make do with sneaky glances, thank-yous and stock drop offs, and seeing him laugh and chat with Linda behind the counter.

By the end of my shift I've resolved to take drastic measures…first thing Monday morning.

"Dude you gotta help me! I've been tryna talk to him for a week!"

"What d'you mean? Just talk to him."

"I've. Been. Trying! But shit keeps getting in the way."

"Shit? You mean work? You mean the work at your job is getting in the way of your flirting?"

"Flirting?! Are you kidding me?! Dude, I only managed to say him to him once, and we've been in the same building for, what, some 30+ hours now?! You gotta do somethin', man, you gotta help me."

Mihael levels me with a look. A look that says "You're an idiot and I hate how stupid you are"; a look I've seen at least a million times. "You're serious. You really wanna rack up another favor? So you can try to flirt with a guy that might not even like guys?"

"…Does he?"

"No."

"Liar. C'mon, Mells, please? Look at my sad, sad face; don't you hate how sad I am?" I pout at him, tilting my head to one side, and clasp my hands under my chin.

"Get your sadness outta my face, Jeevas," he says flatly, planting the heel of his hand on my forehead and pushing me away. "…I need thinking space."

For the next two days I walk into that shop anticipating, but nothing comes of it.

The first day, we're swamped — I'm at the register, taking and relaying more orders than I can count, there's marker ink all over my fingers where I'm trying to be quick with the take-out cups, and whenever there's a second to breathe I'm shooed away to check the dishwasher or grab more syrup.

The second day is in the crapper almost immediately. There are already numerous customers sitting and sipping and happily chatting — all great stuff, but when I glance toward The Machine, Nate isn't there.

The third day is an afternoon shift and when I walk in, there's a group of three sat at a table in the corner, one woman squeezing past me to leave.

And Nate's alone behind the counter.

I look around for Mihael as I'm signing in, but he's nowhere to be seen in the small space, so I shove my stuff into a locker, pocket the tiny key, and head out to start my shift. Ten minutes early.

"Hey, uh, you on your own today?"

"No; Mihael's ordering," He nods toward the supply room, "and you're back here with me. If that's alright with you?"

"Oh, s-sure, no, yeah, that's- that's cool." I lift the hinged section and step through the gap, carefully lowering it back into place. "So I'm on the register?"

"Actually, you're manning The Machine." I can feel the look of horror taking over my face. "You'll be fine. I've heard you just…need a little practice. I'll help you," he smiles, right at me, and my insides start melting into mush. "Why don't you start by making a Latte?"

"Uh, yeah, okay."

I can feel it every time Nate steals a glance at me, trying to watch without watching as I fumble through the motions. I wish I could blame all the hiccups on him watching me, but I know I'm just as bad when he's not here.

He smiles when I set the cup in front of him. But then he takes a sip.

"That bad, huh?" He nods in little movements, looking at me like I'm the most pathetic thing he's ever seen, and holds the cup out to me. I do my best to ignore the little thrill that rushes through me when my fingers touch his, and the one I get when I think of putting my lips on something his lips have been on, and take a sip. "Oh that's bad. It tastes like…burning milk water…"

Nate laughs a little, the sound killing the bitter taste in my mouth, and takes the cup back, daring to taste the 'coffee' again. He holds it in his mouth for a moment, then swallows it with a wince. "I think you scorched the milk and didn't put enough coffee in for the espresso," he says, sounding more like he's telling me my hamster died than giving me coffee critique.

"Soooo I destroyed it?"

"…Destroyed is a little harsh, I-I would say you…brutally murdered it, mangled it to the point that it's only recognisable by dental records." The laugh that barrels out of my mouth is embarrassingly loud, but Nate laughs too and I'm feeling to happy about that to really care about anything else — even Mihael poking his head out of the supply room door and rolling his eyes at us. "…C'mon, I'll show you how to make one that doesn't taste like…that."

Somehow I'd managed to do everything wrong, and I don't know how I never realised it; until I watch Nate work. I mean, I've watched him work before, but up close is different; from across the room his smooth, efficient movements are impressive, but standing right next to him, I'm floored by the flawless process, there's not a movement wasted and he looks so at ease doing it all.

I hadn't taken my eyes off him the entire time, but when it comes to my turn, and he's standing right there beside me, my brain craps out. I get as far as sticking the steaming wand in the pitcher of milk and getting it started before he makes a correction. "You forgot purge it."

"Huh?"

"The wand. Before and after it goes into the milk, you need to wipe it and flush some steam through it. It's okay, we'll just—"

But I'm already fumbling to pull the pitcher out from under the wand but it catches and scalding milk is all over my hand. "FUCK! FuckfuckfuCK!" There's piping hot milk all over the place, a half-filled coffee cup broken on the floor, and a gentle hand on my elbow, turning me toward the little hand washing sink. I flinch, trying to yank my hand away when it's put under cool, running water, but the little hand has a strong grip.

"Sorry. Just hold it there for a minute."

The agonising pain has me kinda distracted, but I'm pretty sure Nate was just touching me. That, or I slipped in the milk puddle and busted my head on the counter.

I'm still not sure which it was, but when I see Mihael standing by the supply closet, shaking his head at me, I think I'm gonna wish I'd busted my head.

"Matt?" I turn my attention away from the angry blond; Nate's standing next to me again, the mess I made covered with a heap of blue paper towels. "Can you take your hand out from under the water? We should get it taken care of…"

My hand goes from one sink to another, from the hand washing sink behind the counter to the one in the staff room. It's been about ten minutes and the pain's finally starting to dull. Nate's a few feet away, pulling stuff out of the first-aid kit. "Is your hand feeling any better?"

"Uh, y-yeah, I guess. Feels a little less like it tryna melt off, so… Is that cling film?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "You can't put dressings on burns and scalds, because they might stick to the skin and damage it."

"You mean like, peel it off?"

"Um, I've never tested it to see what happens, but I guess it could."

"Gross. Wanna test it?"

Nate's face lights up with a grin and my stomach twists up.

He's insanely careful as he wraps up my hand — first, in a piece of cling film where my skin is the angriest red, then sticking a dressing pad over it — but it still hurts like hell and I feel bad every time I wince 'cause he looks so sorry for causing it.

When we head back out, the mess is cleaned up and Mihael's shaking his head from his spot beside The Machine. For a second, I wonder if he's been shaking his head the whole time. "How bad is it?"

The pain is constant and it feels like fire is creeping up my arm. "I'm fine."

"Good. Now stay the fuck away from my machine, you hear me…? The fuck is wrong with you, man?" Translation: I'm glad you're not seriously hurt. Please stay away from the machine, I don't want you having another accident. How did this happen?

"Results were inconclusive."

"Whatever. Get outta here, Moron." Translation: while I'm glad that you're well enough to crack jokes, I don't at this moment appreciate your attempt at humor. I don't know how much you can currently handle and I'm worried that I'll give you a task that will cause you more discomfort, so find yourself something to do. Moron.

"You got it, Boss!"

Even though it's a pretty small place, and kinda dead in here, I manage to make myself busy for a while — wiping down tables and tucking the chairs neatly back under them, restocking the coffee stirrers, I even end up (carefully) running a couple coffees.

As I'm carrying a tray loaded with clean cups to the counter, I realise no one's in here. The last couple people walked out a few minutes ago and no one's come in since, and Mihael's in the office, putting the order on the computer. I can talk to Nate without being interrupted! Nerves swarm my stomach and suddenly my hands feel a little shaky.

Nate's already turning away from his syrup inspection as I'm setting the tray on the counter. "Thanks," he smiles, his hands — small, slim-fingered hands — replacing mine on the edges of the tray.

"No problem. Hey, got a second?"

"Sure." His hands are idle on the grey plastic. "Is your hand bothering you?"

"Nah, it's probably okay as it can be… I wanted to ask if you're okay, if I spilled anything on you when I dropped everything."

"Oh, no, I'm fine, no harm done. Not to me, anyway," and maybe I'm imagining it, but is he teasing me?

"Good. Good, 'cause being clumsy and getting myself hurt is one thing, but getting other people caught up in the crossfire is… Anyway, you're okay so- so I should, uh…let you get back to…what you were doing." Nate's smiling, a tiny thing, a silent laugh, and I should go, but… "Uh, y-y'know what? One more thing…would you maybe wanna…get coffee with me later? One I haven't horrifically mangled?"

Nate laughs softly through his nose, his small smile quickly falling away into a guilty expression. "I'm sorry, Matt, I have something to take care of later… Maybe another time?"

The rejection stings and I can tell by the way it feels on my face, that my smile looks fake as hell. "Yeah. Sure, a-another time." Nate's sorry smile is still firmly on his face, but I don't think I can keep mine up much longer, so I mumble out an "Anyway…" and take myself to the cleaning supply closet to grab a mop and bucket — the restrooms won't clean themselves.

Over the next hour or so, things pick up a little; enough that I have to take over the register for a couple minutes, but it never gets really busy.

When the little rush is over, I end up with a few more tables to clean up after — I never want to see another damn table in my life — while Nate's messing around behind the counter, neatening stuff up just for something to do.

I keep my head down, focus on my own shit, but the second I look up, Nate looks up, too. My gut sinks…but then he smiles, lifts his hand in a little wave. I can't help but smile back. Then I'm dropping the cloth in my hand and signing to him. »How's it look out here?«

He looks stunned, blinking at me wide-eyed, then his hands are moving, almost too quickly for me to keep up, »Where did you learn ASL?«

»Internet. Thought it'd be a cool to learn. Everyone else was learning French or Spanish but I wanted something a little different. You?«

»My Grandfather. He's hard of hearing. He raised me, and taught me out of necessity.«

I'm not really sure how to respond to that — do I ask why his grandfather raised him? What if it upsets him to talk about? — but I can't not respond, and my hands are moving before my brain can stop them, »Must have been cool, being able to swear in a way that a lot of people don't understand. Swearing and not getting in trouble for it is pretty much every kid's dream.« Nate laughs so loudly that the sound nearly echoes in the room, and damn he has a nice laugh: sporadic and breathy and bright somehow.

When it tapers off, his cheeks are a little pink, his mouth is in a laugh-loose smile, and his hands are moving a little slower, »Even better: telling other kids you're teaching them to swear when you're really teaching them things like, "I'm an idiot" or "I stink".«

»Evil. But genius«

»I know. It looks good out there, by the way. It looks really good.«

At the end of the day, Nate throws a smile and a "Bye!" over his shoulder as he hurries off. Big date, I guess.

"So, how'd it go?" Mihael asks as we're flipping chairs onto tabletops. "Other than that stupid shit you did to your hand."

"I asked him out, he said "I already have plans, maybe another time", so…" I shrug a shoulder, hating how bitter I sound about it all.

"So, another time. He doesn't just say that to people, Matt. If he doesn't wanna go out with somebody, he'll just tell 'em no." I raise an eyebrow at him. "Not me, idiot. You think I've never been in hearing range when he gets asked out?" Mihael moves to the last table, and I let out a sigh a relief that I hope he doesn't hear. "It wasn't a no," he calls, "so don't get all mopey on me."

"Fuck off, I don't mope."

"Whatever," he scoffs. "Get out, I gotta set the alarm."


	2. Chapter 2

"What're you two messing with over there?" Linda calls, dropping packets of Splenda one-by-one into their compartment.

"Uh, latte?"

"You don't sound so sure," Linda laughs.

"It's supposed to be a latte; but I don't know how well I'm gonna pull it off," I explain, my arm brushing Nate's as I reach for the white cloth beside the machine. Goosebumps pop up over my skin, but I do my best to ignore it, purging the steamer and sticking the milk pitcher under it.

From the corner of my eye, I see Nate smiling. "You're doing better each time."

I wait until the steamer's off and the pitcher's clear of it before I dare to take my eyes off it. "Yeah, no third degree burns anymore!" I can't help but laugh when Nate shuffles back a step as I'm pouring the milk into the cup.

"Third degree? Your hand wouldn't have healed this well after just two weeks if they'd been third degree burns."

"Second?" I try, handing over the cup.

Nate doesn't answer, just smirks, blowing a slow breath into the cup…and takes a careful sip.

When he lowers it, there's a weird expression on his face that's 60% smile, and 40% disgust. "Best one yet!"

"Your face says it's still garbage," I tease, as he tastes it again.

"No, it's definitely better; I just can't drink coffee without sugar."

Linda's leaning on the counter now, eying Nate suspiciously, and drops a sparse handful of sugar packets onto the varnished wood, holding a coffee stirrer between the fingers of her other hand. Nate sets the cup down, taking the stirrer from her and empties a few packets into the coffee. "Are you really gonna drink that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because coffee gives you headaches." A blush leeches into Nate's cheeks; instead of responding, he tries to take another sip of coffee, but the forgotten stirrer pokes him just under his eye.

His face turns goes from pale pink to rosy red and Linda laughs, twirling away to continue the sugar refill. "You've been drinking two cups of coffee almost every day for two weeks, even though it gives you headaches?"

Nate shrugs a shoulder. "I said I'd help you, and taste-testing is part of the process…but maybe we should move on to tea drinks."

Some ten minutes later Nate taking a green tea frappucinno from my hand, and he looks happier about it then he ever did when I handed him a coffee drink.

As he tastes it, he gives me a thumbs up, smiling at me around the straw, and it's so damn cute that I kinda melt a little bit.

There's a few change-outs and duty-swaps through the day, to accommodate breaks or whatever, so at some in the afternoon, I end up behind the counter with Linda. She flirts mercilessly and she's full of innuendos and dirty puns, but there's nothing in it, it's just fun for her, so when I finally fire on back about 'grinding her coffee', she laughs and beams at me while she calls me gross.

"So, on a scale of one to ten," she teases, as the customers are walking away with their mochas, "how bad is this crush of yours?"

"The scale only goes to ten?"

Linda tips her head to the side, pouting at me pityingly. "Awww, Matt! Well, I have some information that might help you."

"At a price, though, right?"

"No no, I'm a non-profit matchmaker," she says, toying absently with the paintbrush pendant on her necklace. "I'm not gonna take your soul…just make your ears wish they were never born."

I take a step away from her, holding my hands up defensively. "I can already sign, you don't have to mess with my hearing."

"No, nothing like that!" She laughs. "There's this thing, Friday night…"

"…I need you to put me in for Friday night."

Mihael looks up from his lunch. "You sure about that?"

"Yup. Linda already told me the band's shit, I still want in."

He looks at me for a moment, ice blue gaze trying to burrow into my brain, and decides, "Okay."

"Just like that? You're not gonna be a dick about it…?"

"You're volunteering for extra shifts," he shrugs. "I don't care why, I just care that you're bothering to show up. When I'm done here—" he gestures at the Tupperware container in front of him with his fork "—I'll check the budget and get back to you."

"Thanks, man. Hey, while I'm here…"

Mihael sighs. "Fine. Be quick."

He shakes his head at the hopeful grin I direct at him…and punches my thigh when, as I'm walking past him to get to my locker, I pause to press a noisy kiss to the top of his head and singsong, "Love youuu!" at him.

I spend most of my smoke break half hunched over, trying to rub the soreness out of my thigh and feeling thankful that Mihael didn't decide to stab me with his fork instead.

When I head back in, I get a curious-yet-concerned look from Nate, and Linda gives me a thumbs up and raises her eyebrows expectantly — I smile at both of them.

I don't expect to see Nate until Friday night, but the next morning — a Thursday morning — Nate's suddenly in front of me; I don't know how I didn't notice him walk in, or even standing in line, but he's here now and my stomach is full of bees, and there's a giant (probably stupid-looking) grin on my face. "Hey! What're you doing here?"

Nate's smiling, too, but it's the furthest thing from stupid-looking. "Class got cancelled, so…" he shrugs a shoulder. "Um, c-could I get a Soy Green Tea Frappucinno? Mint and vanilla?"

"Sure. Uh, 50/50?" He nods and I grab a napkin to scribble his order on. "Milk preference? Oh, wait. Soy. You said that first. Sorry."

"No, it's okay," he says lightly, shrugging off his backpack to swing it around in from of him.

"Hey, whoa, it's on me."

He smiles at me, looking almost apologetic. "You don't have to do that…"

"I know."

Nate just sorta looks at me for a second, his smile growing — his eyes are silver-gray, nearly steely-blue where the sunlight's shining across his face — before he hefts his backpack up onto one shoulder. "Thank you, Matt."

"I wouldn't thank me yet, dunno how it's gonna turn out." Nate laughs a little and the bees in my stomach turn into butterflies. "Uh, you headed back out, or…?"

He glances over his shoulder, and when he turns back around, tells me, "I think I'll take a seat," and gestures vaguely toward a free table near the door.

"Cool, I'll, uh, I'll bring this over to you." His smile never really left his face, but it brightens up again as he thanks me, and then he heads toward his chosen seat.

It takes me a minute to remember how to make the thing, but, luckily, when it's done it's still quiet enough that I can leave the register for a minute.

When I look toward his table, I see his backpack half-open at his feet, a pencil case spilled open on the table, and a pencil-holding hand moving over a page of the A4 sketchbook in front of him.

Just as I'm getting close enough to maybe see what he's working on, he glances up and hurries to close the book around the pencil he was holding. "So, was it an art class? The one that got cancelled?" I ask, laying down a napkin and setting his drink on top of it.

"Yeah. And thank you," he adds quickly, reaching for the cup. "Studio arts at UCLA."

Maybe that's what busy means, my brain supplies hopefully. "Oh yeah? Could I maybe…see?" I nod toward the sketchbook and Nate's cheeks flush pink.

"No," he laughs nervously, shaking his head. "No, um…this isn't- isn't really my medium, I, um… This is just…" He glances down at the drink in front of him, pulling the paper wrapper off of the top of the straw. "…Maybe when it's done," he offers, glancing up with a small smile.

I can't help but smile back at him. "Hey, no pressure though. Art's a personal thing, I get it… Uh, anyway, I- I should get back, so… Enjoy your tea." He thanks me again, brining the drink closer to his face as I turn to leave.

When I get back behind the counter, Linda's grinning at me. "He's watch-chiiing youu," she sing-songs, like a child in a horror movie.

"You're kinda scary, you know that?"

"I'm try to tell you that he's gazing longingly after you, but if you don't wanna hear it…" Linda shrugs a shoulder, then reaches up to adjust her ponytail. There's a twinge of something warm in my stomach and a disbelieving breath huffing out of my nose, because, yeah, sure, of course he is.

For the next hour, even while I'm trying to concentrate, Linda keeps 'updating me' on what Nate's doing (as if I'm not sneaking glances myself) — "…He's looking at you again…"

"…He's looks like he hates every customer you smile at…"

"…Don't look now, but he's kinda staring at you…" — I'm trying to ignore her, but her teasing worms it's way into my ears and it's starting to get to me, making me feel kinda…nervous; so when I notice Nate's tea getting low, I use it as an excuse to escape.

"So what'd you mean, when you say it's not your medium?" Nate looks up at me, startled, and shifts the book closer to his chest protectively. "I'm not tryna peek, promise," I laugh, offering him the drink in my hand.

Holding the book close to his chest with one hand, he reaches for the drink with the other, meeting my eyes as he thanks me for it.

"I can draw, but it's not really what I do," he explains, sitting up a bit straighter and setting the new drink on the table.

"What do you do?"

His eyes light up at that and he's carefully closing his sketchbook and asking, "Do you have a minute? Do you want to sit?"

"Yeah!" Suddenly my heart is racing. Nate smiles brightly at me, sitting up and taking his feet off of the bar between the legs in the chair in front of him — it screeches against the floor as I sit myself down, maybe too quickly.

Picking up the book again, he flips to the front and starts talking; "My sketchbooks are more like concept books," he says, and a blush rises in his cheeks. "That sounds really pretentious, but what I mean is I'm sort of a sculptor, so all of my ideas get, um, doodled in here…"

He talks me through pages and pages of beautiful drawings, elaborating on the notes scribbled in corners, explaining the materials he's used and why — stone and wood and clay have never really appealed to him, he tells me. He smiles as he talks, even about setbacks and failed attempts at experimental methods, and his joy is infectious, magnetic, and luckily he doesn't seem to mind when we realise, almost at the same time, that I'd been leaning in close to him.

Feeling a little awkward, I move away from him, reluctantly putting a few inches between us. Nate fidgets in his seat, smiling shyly and ducks his head, shutting the book. "Sorry, I…I get a bit carried away sometimes."

"Nah, it's okay…it's- it's kinda nice listening to you." Nate blushes, reaching for his tea. "Maybe I could see some of your work sometime?"

Straw halfway to his mouth, he pauses. "I-I'm sort of in the middle of a project now, but, when it's finished…?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm there." Nate smiles brightly, dazzlingly, and I'm feeling a little dazed as I get back to work.

Linda grins at me, winking playfully as I move back into place behind the register. Mihael, from where he's collecting used cups across the room, shakes his head despairingly.

After a while, when the midday rush has passed, Nate approaches the counter; but before I can get a word out, he's dropping a dollar bill and a folded sheet of paper in the tip jar and turning to leave.

It's not until the end of the day, when tips are being split, that I get to see what the piece of paper is about.

It's a sketch.

A sketch of me, from the chest up, my face slightly turned toward the giant window in the east wall. It's black and white, except my eyes, colored blue with several shades of what looks like metallic pencils, and my name tag in silver. In the bottom corner he's scribbled the date and signed it.

When I walk into the shop at 6:20 the next night, there's a small group of guys setting up; they look like they're about finished up, and thank good for that, 'cause one dude has a fucking banjo and I don't think I could listen to that shit being tuned.

As I'm walking into the staff room, Mihael's walking out. "How did you get in here?"

"Front door was unlocked."

Mihael mutters something threatening-sounding, that I'm pretty sure isn't english. "Get your shit together," he tells me, "they'll start showing up soon."

I do as he says, even though I really wanna see how the murderous glare he's directing at the hipsters translates into words.

A few minutes later, as I'm pinning my name tag to my chest, Nate rushes into the staff room — his face is flushed and he's oddly uncoordinated as he's tugging off his jacket and trying to stuff it in his locker.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I'm late."

"'S not a big deal, Mihael didn't say anything about it, so don't worry about it." I shrug a shoulder. "If he was mad at you, you'd know by now." Nate's mouth curves into a hopeful smile.

Ten minutes after the hipsters start filing in, Mihael goes home; right around then, there's a pre-gig coffee rush, and twenty minutes after that's over, I start to realise how lucky he is — the room is full of people wearing thick-rimmed glasses or suspenders or some kinda shirt with a moustache on it, and every one of them smells like mothballs, and then the 'music' starts.

"I think this shit is gonna kill me."

Nate's shuffles closer, tilting his chin up, his lips near my ear. His breath is warm on my skin. "Keep on eye on the tip jar, it helps. Hipsters are surprisingly good tippers."

I duck my own head, to murmur into his ear. And I don't think for a second about how good he smells. "There could be a 100 dollar bill in there and it still wouldn't make up for having to listen to a damn whatever that is." Nate's shoulders bounce with quiet laughter, bumping my arm a little. "Is it even a real instrument?"

"I think, technically, yes."

"It's a 2x4 with string on it! It's only a step up from a damn tissue box guitar!" Nate tries to shush me and muffle his laughter behind his hand at the same time. "What the fuck is it? Is the fucking banjo not obscure enough, they have to go make up shit? How does it make sound? Is it even fucking making a sound? God, I hope not."

"You don't hear it? It's like…it sounds like styling gel being applied to a moustache and someone scathingly repeating 'you've never heard of it?' over and over again."

Nate and I talk between customers — wondering how the band formed, whose neighbors suffered through the most rehearsals, how the hell they have this many 'fans' — before the music suddenly stops, and turns into some kind of open-mic poetry recital.

I'm not 100% sure what prompts it, maybe that it's quieter in here now that the instruments (save for the banjo) have been abandoned, but Nate's taking the smallest step away from me and starts signing, »This is new. They weren't doing this before. I wasn't trained for this.«

I can't help but follow suit, »They've been here before? You've done this more than once? Why?«

»Unfortunately yes. At least five times. I'm not sure why I did it the first time, but every time since then has been for the tips.«

For the first time since he's mentioned it, I look at the jar; it's fuller than I've ever seen it, and I've got a good feeling that a solid handful of those bills are bigger than singles. »While we're on the subject of the tip jar, that sketch you did yesterday was really great.«

Nate smiles, bashful, but obviously happy. »Thank you. You're easy to draw.« Even with the lights dimmed, I can see the rosy blush blooming under his skin. »It was–« he starts, pausing as he drops his gaze…and brings it back up. »It was missing something. I realised after I'd given it to you.«

»There's no way you're getting it back. You'll just have to draw me another one.«

»I'd be more than happy to. You're very good at standing still,« he tells me, his smile turning teasing.

The heat of embarrassment creeps up the back of my neck. »Don't tell Mihael that.« Nate laughs and promises he won't.

When the tables have been moved back into place, the cash drawer shoved into the safe, the last hipsters shooed out, and the tips split, we can finally leave.

As soon as Nate gets to his locker, he pulls out his phone. He messes with the screen for a minute, then turns it on its side and sits it back inside the locker; after a moments pause, he's signing. I try to give him some privacy by grabbing my jacket from my own locker.

He's only on the phone for a minute or two, but he still apologises when he's done, and hurried to shrug on his jacket.

I'm standing outside, waiting, as Nate sets the alarm and it's then that I notice my car's the only one in the parking lot. As he's locking the door, I bring it up. "Hey, um, how're you getting home?"

"Bus; there's a stop just down the street."

"D-do you- you want a ride home? I'm not tryna be weird or anything, just…you don't have to wait for the bus. I, I-I, I don't mind driving you home. If you want."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, no, it's no problem." I feel like the smile in my face is kinda creepy, but Nate doesn't seem to mind, and smiles back at me.

The drive's pretty quiet, except for Nate's directions, but it's comfortable. Until I pull up in front of his house. I get an aching, sinking feeling in my gut that only gets worse as he's thanking me and unbuckling his seatbelt and pushing the door open.

But as he's halfway turned to step out, he pauses and turns back toward me. "C-could I…could I call you? When I have some time?" The aching sinking stops so suddenly and my stomach's twisted up so tight with nervous excitement that I feel a little sick. "I- that- that sounds terrible but–"

"It sounds great. You're busy, I get that; we can figure something out. Uh, here…" With a bit of awkward fidgeting, I manage to dig my phone out of my pocket and hand it to him. He types with his right hand, freeing his phone from his pocket with his left, and then he's typing with his left, too. "Impressive."

"Thanks." When I take my phone back from him, it's warm from his hand. "So, um, I'll- I'll call you? Well, I'll see you Sunday, but…I'll call you. Not to say that you can't call me…" His face is deep red now, and I kind of want to say something to stop his nervous rambling, but a bigger part of me thinks it's adorable and wants to just sit here listening to it. "…Uhm, I-I should go… Keys. So. I have to open up in the- i-in the morning…"

"Right, yeah. But, Sunday, right?"

Nate nods. "Sunday," he agrees, and this time, when he moves to step out, he actually does. But he lingers after he shuts the door. "Thanks again, for the ride home."

"No problem. Hey, maybe…maybe Sunday, if you want, I could…? It's no problem…"

"Sure! I'd like that."

"Great!"

He stands there for a minute longer, looking at me and smiling at me and twisting my insides up, before he declares, way too soon, that he "really should go;" and I smile and nod and "yeah, sure," but I can't quite leave until the front door is shut behind him.

"Sunday," I tell the ceiling as I'm laying in bed. "I'm looking forward to work on a Sunday morning…maybe I did bust my head."


End file.
